The autumn had been one of unprecedented splendour, making the
imaginative whisper that Napoleon, like a second Joshua, could exact
obedience even from the sun. A month earlier, soon after the
retreat was ordered, the nights had begun to be cold, but the days
remained brilliant. Now the rivers were shrouded in white mist, and
still water was frozen.
Barlasch seemed to take it for understood that a billet holds good
throughout a whole campaign. But the door of No. 36 Frauengasse was
locked when he turned its iron handle. He knocked, and waited on
the step.
It was Desiree who opened the door at length--Desiree, grown older,
with something new in her eyes. Barlasch, sure of his entree, had
already removed his boots, which he carried in his hand; this added
to a certain surreptitiousness in his attitude. A handkerchief was
bound over his left eye. He wore his shako still, but the rest of
his uniform verged on the fantastic. Under a light-blue Bavarian
cavalry cape he wore a peasant's homespun shirt, and he carried no
arms.
He pushed past Desiree rather unceremoniously, glad to get within
doors. He was very lame, and of his blue knitted stockings only the
legs remained; he was barefoot.
He limped towards the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder to make
sure that Desiree shut the door. The chair he had made his own
stood just within the open door of the kitchen. It was nine o'clock
in the morning, and Lisa had gone to market.
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